Forgotten in Death(24)

She rose when Peabody stepped back in. “Good call bringing me in. It gave me a better sense of her. I’d say a sharp eye and maybe tossing in the half-assed sensitive gives her a solid take on what’s going on.”

“My father worked construction as a teenager—before he met my mother and started the farm.”

“Pre–Free-Ager?”

“I guess he was a half-assed Free-Ager before Mom, but he was always a full-on sensitive. Anyway, he says that some jobs, most jobs, ran clean, and with people having pride in the work. But some, you had that corner cutting, the palm greasing, material walking off the job. And greed ran the show.”

“Sounds about right.”

“The Bardov company. Do you think they still have ties with the Russian mob?”

“Jesus, Peabody. Yuri Bardov is the Russian mob. He’s Bardov Construction.”

“I’ve got to catch up.”

So did she, Eve thought, because she’d never tangled with Bardov or his crew.

“You hear he’s mostly retired. Has to be hitting toward ninety. But maybe he’s still got fingers in the pie. Alva sees a midnight bribe going on, or witnesses material walking away, something of the sort, alerts whoever’s doing it—because that was her pattern—starts writing in her book and, panicked or pissed off or both, they kill her, dump her.”

“And take her book.”

“And take her book,” Eve agreed. “Write up the interview. I’m going to look into this Tovinski, and take a harder look at Bardov. Didn’t have the feel of a mob hit,” she said half to herself. “Too damn sloppy.”

“I bet Roarke knows the company.”

“Yeah, I’m counting on it.”

She didn’t want to tag him on it right then. She figured he was either catching up on his own work, dealing with the shutdown of his site, or having a little fun helping Feeney in Geek World.

She went back to her office, hit the AC for more coffee, and found Tovinski by using his last name and his employer, the city.

Not Ivan. Alexei.

She studied his ID shot as she generated a hard copy for her board. A hard face, she mused. Sharp and lean, as if any excess had been meticulously whittled away. White-blond hair cut close to the scalp, pale skin, pale blue eyes.

The nephew of Marta Bardova—Yuri Bardov’s wife—Tovinski immigrated to the United States in 2023 at the age of fifteen. Now just shy of his fifty-third birthday, he held the title of chief structural engineer for Bardov.

One marriage in 2048—Nadia Bardova, daughter of his uncle-in-law’s cousin. Two offspring: son, Mikael, age twelve; daughter, Una, age eight.

Numerous identifying marks in the form of tattoos. Prints and DNA on record.

Juvenile record sealed in Kiev—which meant he had some early bumps.

Adult bumps included three assault charges—and six months inside for the third one—at the age of twenty-four.

Carrying a blade over the legal limit, two counts, ages eighteen and twenty-two. Fines, community service for the second charge. No time served.

Questioned and released over the beating death of a shopkeeper. Questioned and released over the drowning—in a toilet bowl—of a city inspector.

No wits, no physical evidence, suspect alibied.

Nothing since.

Because you got better at it, Eve thought.

If she had to conjure the face of a professional enforcer, it would look like Alexei Tovinski’s.

“I’m going to enjoy chatting with you, Alexei. And soon.”

She rose to add him to the board, then found herself circling around to the other side.

She studied the remains, and the area—essentially a pit—walled off from the rest. Deliberately, she was certain. It occurred to her that if the dates on the plans and construction of that building, of the so-called wine cellar were accurate, Tovinski would have been in New York.

Still a teenager, but old enough. She still needed DeWinter to verify the time of death on the Jane Doe, but speculating, if the victim had gone in at the right time, if Bardov had any part in the plans …

She generated a second copy of Tovinski’s ID, studied it again.

“Oh yeah, you were born to kill.”

She pinned him up on the second side.

And when she looked over, Roarke stood in her doorway.

The man moved like a ghost.

“Didn’t expect to see you.”

“I’ve been in EDD for a bit. Some progress there, but then Feeney had already made inroads. I’ve just added some … alternative perspective.”

“From a thief’s point of view.”

He only smiled. “It’s all fascinating, and gave me a very nice distraction. Feeney’s had to shift to something else for now, and it occurred to me it’s very unlikely my cop has eaten anything since breakfast.

“So.” He moved to the AutoChef.

“I’m right in the middle of—”

“Mmm-hmm. As I am myself. But let’s have a bite. Pasta salad sounds good enough.”

He programmed two portions, then glanced at her board. “And who is this hard-bitten individual you’ve put on my murder?”

“My murder,” she corrected. “Alexei Tovinski. You don’t know him.”

“Not his face, no, but the name sounds familiar. How are you linking him to the murder?”